


Cherry

by keelywolfe



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Content, implied honeytrap, mild crossdressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, the players change but the game never does. So Napoleon has always believed, anyway....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a long, long time since I wrote Man From UNCLE. I can't believe it took me so long to see the movie. Yes, liberties were taken, but I won't lie, I loved their take on it. Had to write something to go with it.

* * *

If Waverly were here, Napoleon suspected he knew exactly what he would say about the mission. Of course it had been a success; after all, Napoleon was an expert in these things. 

Waverly, if he'd chosen to grace this particular end mission with his presence, would take the small roll of microfilm and examine it with his jaundiced eye. He would cast Napoleon his lopsided smile and say, 'Good show' or 'Well done', or if he was feeling particularly expressive, a well-placed 'Brilliant!'.

Then Napoleon would leave the film with him and head off for a shower and a glass of something extravagant and biting. He'd relax in a room that wasn't his own and let the day fade. 

As it happened, Waverly was not there to offer his opinion one way or another, but Napoleon didn't see any reason to skip the second half of his expectation. A shower had been dismissed for the moment in favor of the drink and now he was sprawled inelegantly across a too-small love seat in a robe, savoring expensive scotch and deliberately not thinking. 

Once, the sound of his door unexpectedly opening would have been cause for alarm. Now Napoleon only opened a lazy eye, taking in the sight of his partner. If Illya had been half as busy as Napoleon had been, he had to be exhausted as well but there was no sign of it. 

"The microfilm is over there, if that's what you're here for," Napoleon gestured lazily with the glass, watching the scotch sway far too close to the rim. Illya hummed noncommittally, choosing instead to pick up the bottle and examine the label.

"That is far too expensive for the way you are wasting it."

"It's never a waste if you're enjoying it." Napoleon took another lazy sip to prove his point, relishing the smoky bite.

"I will take you at your…word," Illya trailed off, truly looking at him for the first time. If there was one thing Napoleon had learned about Illya it was he was as stoic as they came, expressionless and cool until that temper of his fought its way to the fore. To see his eyes widen, then narrow, his brow creasing and his lips tightening, why, that was more expression that he usually allowed in a week, much less a mere moment.

"What is it?" Napoleon asked, more curious than concerned. His curiosity grew when Illya made an aborted gesture at his face.

"You…you have…"

Good lord, he was close to stammering. Napoleon lifted the hand that wasn't currently occupied with a glass of scotch to his own face, gingerly touching. From Illya's expression, he wouldn't have been surprised to find a growth or a wound that had somehow escaped his notice. The tips of his fingers came away dabbed with red. 

Ah. That.

"You can't allow petty foibles to get in the way of the mission," Napoleon waved off Illya's disgust.

"Foible?" Illya hissed, "You are wearing…that is lipstick."

Napoleon hummed agreeably, "It's cherry," he wet his lip deliberately, tipping a wink Illya's way. "They were out of Russian red."

And wasn't he going to _treasure_ remembering the way Illya's mouth thinned, his own lips going white. 

"I would never wear such a…a thing!" Illya spat.

"I'm sure that's why they asked me and not you," Napoleon said dryly. "And is it really so terrible? A little color to the lips, a little something pretty to wear. If you'd come in a few minutes earlier, I'd still have been wearing these." He managed to hook a finger into one of the shoes he'd cast off, dangling the black pump from one fingertip.

Illya was silent and Napoleon slanted him a look, "Would you look at that, I believe I've rendered you speechless. Trying to picture it?" It took a little maneuvering and he finally had to set his glass on the coffee table before he could slide his foot back into it. He’d left the stockings on; there was something about the feel of silk whether it was on your own legs or someone else. Stretched his leg back out with a pointed toe and admired the sleek line of it. Every man should be able to appreciate a good leg in heels.

"There, you see? Not so terrible," Napoleon dropped his voice to a conspiring whisper, "And let me tell you, darling, it is a bitch finding this kind of shoe in my size."

Everything was still quiet on the Western front and Napoleon shifted to give Illya more of a direct stare. Only to find _his_ stare precisely where Napoleon's legs were. He watched Illya's adam's apple bob in a hard swallow, watched as he looked away and back. Once, again. 

Napoleon considered himself to be something of a connoisseur in human nature. Once you paid attention, people were atrociously simple to understand. Everything reflected back to want and need, to the desires that settled thick and unignorable into the animal brain and all anyone had to do was know precisely how to exploit that simple, precious weakness. 

It was easy enough to slip on the other shoe, easing to his feet and Napoleon didn't bother to try to hide his coltish wobble. Some of them liked that, the artlessness of it, without the pretense. The click of heels on the floor and Illya did not look at him, did not raise his eyes, not even when Napoleon leaned over him.

"Illya," Napoleon said, low, and he didn't pitch his voice higher, didn't pretend to be anything other than what he was, because some of them liked that, too. He settled one knee on the sofa, next to Illya's hip. Moved slowly, carefully, some of them startled, some of them fled, some of them even became vicious, violent, and the bruises weren't always worth the reward. Illya seemed to be fluttering on the verge of anything, his hands clenching into fists as Napoleon eased into his lap. Most of his weight was still on his own knees, braced, waiting to see if Illya would shove him away or—

His mouth was a punishment, mashing Napoleon's lips against his teeth and he could taste bitter lipstick and blood. Fists were hard against his temples, as if Illya couldn't resist holding him but couldn't allow himself the luxury to grasp. Violent, yes, but this was a violence Napoleon could manage; he could coax gentleness, soothe fears, and if he couldn't, well, these were bruises well worth the time they took to heal.

The sudden sensation of moving took him off-guard and Napoleon gasped into Illya's mouth, flailing to grip at Illya's shoulders as he was lifted. Somehow, he always forgot how blasted strong Illya was and for once, he was able to warily appreciate it. It was a rare person who could carry Napoleon around, a rare person indeed who was altogether taller and stronger than him. He couldn't remember a time in his adult life when another person had carried him to a bed and certainly not with the intention he was sure Illya had. 

There was some feeling of freedom in simply allowing it, locking his legs around Illya's waist and arching his hips into him just to feel him stagger, to hear the raggedness of his indrawn breath.

He hesitated long enough that Napoleon bit his lip in punishment, whispering harshly, "Don't stop now, Peril, you're braver than that."

Illya's response was in Russian and the only word Napoleon had a chance to make out was fool, before he was released, dropping heavily to the bed. His first instinct was to cling, to grab something, lost him, damn it, _lost him_ , and Napoleon was better at this than that, he knew what to do, what to say, but instead, he found himself on his stomach, rough hands yanking on his robe until the belt finally loosened and it was stripped off and flung away. 

Ah, like this, this he could manage, utterly bare to Illya's completely dressed, this he knew. Illya was heavy on top of him, his sweater soft and his trousers coarse, the smooth leather of his belt cool at the small of Napoleon's back. Napoleon groaned aloud as Illya sank his teeth lightly into the nape of his neck, bowing his head to allow it. Dominance, of course, that was always the balancing act between them but this time Napoleon was playing a different game. He moaned breathily, writhing against the sheets and Illya, pushing up against him and feeling the coiled tension in him. Begged Illya with silent impatience to take the bait and finally, finally, that narrow thread of patience snapped.

One strong hand between his shoulders, holding him down, and Illya pulled away long enough to snap out, "Hold still!"

Easy enough to ignore and Napoleon did, shoving back against him, fighting against Illya's hold until he pushed an impatient knee between Napoleon's and settled his weight down on him. 

Napoleon laughed silently, that was far more amateurish than he'd expected. It took little more than a hard buck and a twist for Napoleon to nearly free himself. As it was, he managed to roll onto his back and ended up with a very heavy Russian between his legs for his trouble. Napoleon smirked up at Illya, offering a pouting kiss, only to frown when Illya didn't take his offer, only looked silently down at him. 

"What—" Napoleon began, sifting through his actions, what had he done, where had he lost Illya again. He hadn't found an answer in the time it took Illya to fumble into his pocket and pull out a crisp white handkerchief. Napoleon didn't move as Illya wiped the linen over his mouth, over and over until it was streaked with cherry-red stains and his mouth felt used and raw. 

"What-" Napoleon tried again and got no further. He licked his lips that felt too dry and a little sore, and Illya watched him, his eyes following Napoleon's tongue. His gaze flicked to the ruined handkerchief in his hand and Illya's mouth thinned again as he tossed it aside.

"Is not about that," Illya said, thickly, and Napoleon didn’t have a chance to ask what the fuck that meant when Illya's mouth was on his again, no less fierce and unapologetic. He sucked on Napoleon's lower lip, rolling it between his teeth, and whatever questions Napoleon had were left unvoiced. 

The bed had been soft and cool on his bare skin, cradling his cock in a high thread count. Moving against Illya was closer to fucking a brick wall and the best Napoleon could do was work his hands between them. A belt was no barrier at all to his hands, nimble in the most extreme of circumstances, and he could taste Illya's gasp when he slipped both hands inside his trousers to cup the length of his cock. Proportional, God Bless America. Even Napoleon's hands were only just large enough to accommodate. 

"Going to come on me, Peril?" Napoleon crooned. He worked one hand lower, cupping the velvety heat of his balls and kept rhythm with the other, slicking his thumb over the head. Hmm, uncircumcised, as was the Commie way. Strange but acceptable. 

It was something of a shock to have his hands pulled away, forced up and over his head as Illya loomed over him. He was flushed, his face damp with sweat and his lips lightly stained with the same red he'd so thoroughly scrubbed from Napoleon. To his dismay, Napoleon discovered he couldn't break Illya's grip, or at least not without hurting one of them. 

"It was only a question," Napoleon said, mildly, and Illya's scowl deepened. 

"Answer is no, I am not," Illya said curtly. He neatly cut off any protest Napoleon might have worked up by setting his teeth against Napoleon's collarbone, taking the time to suck a colorful bruise into the pale skin. Christ, he did like to play rough, Napoleon winced, and the low throb in his cock confirmed that Napoleon didn't mind in the least. 

Illya was all tongue and teeth, leaving a line of redness that would eventually be bruises. Biting at Napoleon's pectoral and leaving an imprint of teeth before catching his nipple in a pinching nip.

"You are a fierce thing, aren't you," Napoleon breathed. He flexed his wrists in Illya's grip, testing, and smirked in approval when they instantly tightened. Illya glared up at him from beneath his lashes, his mouth still on the hard knob of Napoleon's nipple. "Well, you have me, don't you? Now what are you going to do with me?"

No reply, not that Napoleon expected one. Instead, Illya chose to give his left side the same treatment, teeth and tongue both, and Napoleon was going to look like he'd been mauled by a particularly greedy octopus tomorrow.

"At an impasse, are we?" Napoleon said softly, mockingly. He strained against Illya's grip again. "I could give you some ideas."

Again, silence, although he could nearly feel Illya grinding his teeth. Instead of answering, Illya shifted back and with no little effort, bullied Napoleon into lying on his belly. 

"Don't move," Illya warned, and then the bed creaked as he left it. 

The temptation was there to disobey immediately; Napoleon indulged it enough to prop his chin on a hand, listening to Illya rummaging in the bathroom. Soft footsteps announced his return and Napoleon couldn't help a resentful mutter, "I hope you know I'm not obeying, I'm merely curious where you're going with his." 

A startlingly tender kiss landed in the small of his back. "This I know well," Illya murmured into his skin. A wet cloth on his skin cut off any rejoinder and Napoleon squirmed as Illya scrubbed him with more thoroughness than he thought was strictly necessary. 

"I think I'm insulted. I did shower this morning," Napoleon bit back a curse and winced as Illya only scrubbed harder.

"Where did he touch you?"

"He didn't fuck me, if that's what has you so concerned," Napoleon rested his chin on his hands. "He was something of a traditionalist; I believe he liked the lipstick more than you." It had been one reason Napoleon had been so eager for a drink.

Nothing but the wet sound of the cloth dropping to the floor. Hands on his knees, urging his legs apart and Napoleon sighed, arching his hips up in anticipation of slick fingers or perhaps Illya would take him outright, fuck his way into Napoleon's unprepared body with that strength.

"Illya—" Napoleon broke off, choking on his own words at the touch of lips against the cleft of his ass, hot breath gusting against his skin. Thumbs dug into his cheeks, pulling his buttocks apart and Napoleon couldn't help the sound he made as Illya pressed a disturbingly chaste, gloriously _filthy_ kiss directly on his asshole.

Christ, of the many, countless ways he'd had sex, how had he never done this? He'd done it to women himself, rarely, most of them were perfectly satisfied to keep his face on the other side of this particular coin. Men were worse; most of them barely returned the favor of an orgasm.

Therefore the novel sensation of Illya's tongue licking a wet, nasty stripe up the cleft of his ass was unique, to say the least. Napoleon's entire world narrowed to the hot breath blurting against his wet skin, the faint scrape of Illya's five o'clock shadow, to the tongue moving slowly against him, pausing to push a little inside and then back to circle teasingly against him.

Napoleon let out a breath that was close to a sob, oh, Christ, oh fuck, he wasn't stopping. Working at him with that incredible tongue and the press of a slick finger into him was nearly an afterthought. Nearly, and without hesitation, Napoleon struggled to spread his legs wider, pushing back against it. 

The wet flick of tongue circled Illya's finger, then another hot rush of breath as he pulled back to whisper, "You needn't wear pretty things when you are such a pretty thing, Pasha."

Perfectly true though Napoleon wasn't quite familiar with hearing it phrased just that way.

Illya pressed another finger into him and Napoleon grunted at the strain of it, pushing his palms into the firm mattress beneath him. Finding the leverage he desperately needed to thrust back against Illya.

"Easy, cowboy," Illya hushed him. His free hand was large and cool, stroking soothingly down Napoleon's side and he realized dimly that he was shaking, riding back on Illya's fingers as if the nickname were literal. For his part, Illya seemed content to let him. The rough pressure of a third finger makes Napoleon hiss, the burn still a pleasure.

"Come on," Napoleon gritted out, "Enough, come on, fuck me if that's what you want."

Illya didn't flicker an eye at the profanity. He twisted his fingers sharply, "Perhaps it is this that I want."

More fool he; Illya was obviously no innocent but Napoleon had had enough. He moaned deliberately, arching his back as he groaned out a low growl of a name, a word, "Illya, _please_."

A low, muttered curse in Russian and Illya pulled his fingers free with an obscenely slick sound. A last hot kiss against his ass, a flicker of tongue dipping into his loosened hole, and then Illya was rolling him over, shoving aside the tangle of blankets to leave them on the bare sheets.

Belatedly, Napoleon realized he'd managed to keep his heels on. It was probably a good thing he wasn't prone to kicking; explaining how he'd managed to impale his partner on a six-inch patent leather heel would take some doing and it was likely they'd deny his expense report for the shoes.

He drew his foot up, intending to take it off and Illya's hand on his ankle stopped him. Napoleon half-expected it to be as roughly removed as the lipstick and tossed aside, and he idly considered the odds of that expense report after all. 

Instead, Illya cradled his foot, his fingers pale against the black leather as he eased it off. He set it aside without releasing Napoleon, lifting his foot higher to press a kiss into his instep, lips whispering against the silk stocking. Was there anywhere Illya wouldn't put his mouth? The feel of it had Napoleon's toes curling involuntarily and he shifted impatiently as Illya repeated it on his other foot. 

He left the stockings be and Napoleon drew up his knees the moment he was released, spreading his thighs in unmistakable invitation. Illya took a moment to draw his sweater over his head, crawling up into the cradle of Napoleon's thighs in nothing but his open trousers.

"So impatient," Illya began, cut off in a grunt as Napoleon hooked his ankles behind his knees.

"Yes," Napoleon snarled, impatient with this teasing, enough was enough, and he had a hand between them, cupping Illya through his trousers. He could feel the dampness seeping through, worked them lower until his cock was free. Hot, achingly hot and hard in his hand, and even beneath Illya's weight, Napoleon was lithe enough to move, to arch up and find an angle. This he knew, this he was good at, an expert at stealing all things, and Illya made a choked sound as Napoleon pulled him in.

"Napoleon," Illya whispered, and Napoleon was never, ever going to forget hearing his name just so, the clotted, thick way Illya let it slip free as he slid deep inside. Big, fuck yes, big, bigger than Napoleon had taken in some time or maybe ever, and he didn't care, couldn't, even the burn of it was glorious, and Napoleon bared his teeth, hissing out a breath and took it. 

For a long moment, neither of them moved, breathing in the smoggy, damp air between them in shallow gasps and halting moans. It was Illya who moved first, perhaps by accident, only shifting his weight, but it made Napoleon hiss, clawing at Illya, and the next thrust was more deliberate, held more weight behind it, more power.

It was a game or it wasn't, Napoleon couldn't think clearly anymore, had forgotten the rules. Illya's first faltering thrusts found their rhythm, driving into him with glorious brutality. He hooked an arm beneath Napoleon's knee and splayed his thighs wider, folding him back against the mattress and the solid creak of the headboard became a firm thump, Illya fucking into him, and there was nothing for Napoleon to brace himself against, no leverage to be found. It left him disconcertingly helpless and he reveled in it, letting Illya fuck any sounds out of him that cared to be jarred loose. Sinking his short nails into Illya's shoulders and hips, demanding wordlessly for harder, for more, and Illya answered those demands with breathtaking swiftness.

"Da, yes, like this, _Napoleon_ ," Illya murmured, senselessly, and the words were cut off when he managed to capture Napoleon's mouth, all cutting teeth and tongue, and Napoleon could only moan around it, close, it was too good, too perfect, driven far past the normal simplistic pleasure of sex, and he wanted it to never end, he wanted to come now, and the decision was quickly becoming a matter without a choice.

Illya's hands were both firmly occupied in keeping Napoleon pinned to the bed and it left him to take hold of his cock with a shaky hand, matching Illya's harsh thrusts with his own grip. Coming was like a cataclysm, Napoleon groaning through clenched teeth, the light behind his eyes going honey-gold as he dug his heels into Illya's back, trying for more, for harder, for _more_. He came in wet streaks over his own knuckles, spurting hot over his belly and chest, come falling in stripes over the bruises Illya had marked him with. 

He was still shaking with it when Illya pulled out of him, dragging a hoarse gasp from Napoleon. Illya sprawled over him, jerking off fiercely and Napoleon watched with bleary, satisfied eyes, the ruddy head disappearing and reappearing in his large fist. Illya groaned when he came, splattering fresh semen over Napoleon's belly. He sprawled out on the bed next to Napoleon and touched the wet streaks, smearing them into Napoleon's skin with lazy contentment.

Napoleon allowed it for a moment but the mess had barely dried to tacky when he was shifting restlessly, his thoughts already on another shower. He'd started rolling to the edge of the bed, intent on putting thoughts to action, when a large hand caught his wrist and held, stilling him. Napoleon blinked at it, looking up and meeting Illya's gaze.

Illya's eyes were shadowed, too-soft, and abruptly Napoleon's chest felt too tight, the air in the room was too thin. Without thinking, he started pulling against Illya's grip, twisting; he knew a dozen ways to get free and only half of them would cause major bodily harm. 

Before he could do anything, Illya let him go, holding both hands up empty and loose. His mouth twisted with something like wryness, "Is all right, cowboy, go clean yourself."

Warily, Napoleon slid to his feet, not taking his eyes from Illya. The blond stayed where he was, sprawled out on the mattress, his bare chest still gleaming with sweat and his trousers open and falling past his hips. Debauched was a look Napoleon had seen countless times and he couldn't say why it was so unnerving to see it on Illya. 

Once in the bathroom, he resisted the urge to lock the door. Ridiculous for any number of reasons, not the least that a locked door was not about to stop Illya if he intended to come in. He took the time to fumble off the stockings with hands that felt clumsy and wrong. The shower was a masterpiece of design, the water hot and plentiful and Napoleon stepped into it gratefully, letting the steam and water sluice over him. 

He had a headful of shampoo when he heard a sound, resolutely did not look through the curtain. Truth be told, between missions and fucking his partner, he was exhausted and not thinking seemed like the best decision he'd made all day. He stayed in the shower, idly tracing the bruises and teeth marks that marred his skin until his fingers and toes were pruned and only then did he step out, comfortably swathing himself in the protection of Egyptian cotton. 

To no point; his bedroom was empty when he returned to it, and that tightness in his chest eased. The blankets had been straightened and turned back, his shoes nestled neatly beside his luggage and if it weren't for the faint whiff of sex in the air, Napoleon might have sworn he'd imagined it all. 

Well, that and the soreness in his ass. 

Sleeping seemed to be the wisest choice and Napoleon was about to do just that when something caught his eyes. The bottle of scotch was on his bedside table and a neat tumbler of it was already sitting next to it. Beneath it was a note and Napoleon took an absent sip before he read it. 

In Illya's curt script, it read, _Get some sleep, cowboy, tomorrow is another day._

"Indeed it is," Napoleon murmured, lifting his glass in a silent salute. He finished the glass and resisted the urge to pour another. As he'd said earlier, it wasn't a waste if you were enjoying it and Napoleon suspected he wouldn't enjoy another drop tonight. 

Instead, he settled into the cool sheets, closed his eyes and pretended he couldn't smell their sex between them. 

He almost managed it. After all, Napoleon was an expert in these things. 

-finis-


End file.
